Striking Odds

And the silent eyes swerve to the hearth carefully. For the perpetual slumber is not what they crave for, they only desire a consoling glimpse of the melancholic perfection.
A blazing flame of dignified beauty dances right in the fire, and the ineluctable spells are casted upon her tired eyes.
But they won’t swerve back to their rightful position, rather they linger above and beneath the flames, with unmistakable confidence and a silent hope that maybe, this time, it would spare her, that this time, the fire won’t garrotte her nerves so her sentiments asphyxiate to nothingness.

A perpetual silence follows.

Closed Doors

Khaula Nazir:

I never reblogged anything in my entire life.
But some things, they need to be shared.
Like this masterpiece.

Originally posted on owainglynevans:


What goes on behind closed doors? Nothing. You put a cat in a box and it isn’t alive, or dead. There is no cat. Same thing here. You keep that door closed and nothing will happen. Nothing will change. You open that door and you’ll know if the cat’s dead or not. Look, forget about the cat thing. Just don’t open that door. Ignorance is bliss, you know? What you don’t know can’t hurt you, and what’s wrong with that, eh?

But if I thought my girlfriend was ragging my boss, I’d open it, mate.

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Undeserved Silence

I never ever in my life thought that I would write something personal here, something that’s me. But well, it doesn’t really matter, does it, in a world that doesn’t care.
I have suffered from rejection many times in life. Many a times I have been told that what I write is bullshit, that what I write is incomprehensible, that what I write will get me no where. I have been a victim, like many have been, of DEJECTION, of UNDESERVED SILENCE, of HATRED, of DUPLICITY & HYPOCRISY, of ENVY, of ARROGANCE, of DEROGATORY GLANCES.
All that you guys have already read in my posts.
And hence it comes: I write what is my story. Everything that you see in my poems or writings is what I have been through, or what my closed ones have been through.

The actual problem with us Homo sapiens is that we are never ever satisfied. Dissatisfaction is an attribute our race is proud of. Contentment is found in very very few.
Like all, I have been through some problems.
But like few, I am sentient. I feel way too much.

And hence I am a writer, a self claimed narrator, a demented poetess.
Thing is, even if I am, no one cares. Because trillions of people out there share my profession. And do it better than I ever did. Problem is that I need to let go off writing, I have to adopt a pragmatic approach to life.

Because surely there was someone who wrote better than Shakespeare. Someone who died without acknowledgement for his work.

Deciphering Dexterity

A potent cluster
Of words
Carving impressions,
A voiceless whisper
Of severe impact
Entertaining thoughts,
A composed end
To lonely suffocation
Validating tangles,
An enigmatic graffiti
On absent attention
Evicting derogation,
From a tired mind.
A dexterity given
To an alluring being
It’s you,
Intriguing, still.

A Subjugated Desire

You’re here, right beside me. And even when you are, you are not. Yes, I can see the distance in your eyes, miles of loneliness and pain lined with a silver outline of differences that pinches my inner self so hard, that pushes the desire of asking if there is something wrong almost to my lips.
And the fear of your smiling and replying me with an inevitable ‘everything’s okay’ stops the proliferating profusion of the urge.
And I smile, because at least I can see you, rather than using my defunct imagination and my vanishing memory to capture your allure on the canvas of my mind….

Fluttering Eyelids

You look up at the sky. There are no clouds. And you can feel the blue heaven itch your eyes.
You know you’re alone, like always. And for the nth time in your life, you realize that no one cares.
That no one gave a damn when your wails erupted from your tiny vocal chords as you fidgeted in the doctors arms. That no one gave a damn when you went to school for the first time. That no one cared when you fell from the last step of the stairs and you cried all night, voicelessly. That no one gave a frog to the science competition you won in grade 4. That no one even bothered to look at the Best Student award that you brought home proudly. That they threw those pages recklessly in rubbish, the papers that contained all your sentiments, all that you had, the papers that silently contained you, the papers that had been filled with care, with words no one ever created. That they didn’t see that with those papers went a part of you. And that no one gave a shit when you sobbed behind their backs just because you were short of one mark from a distinction in your favourite subject. And that no one was really sad when you left the home.
And now, with the wrinkled skin leaning against your osteoporosized bones, and now when the frame of your spectacles is tired of hanging on your ears, and now that your ears are tired of hearing derogatory remarks, and now that your tired eyes can unveil the glances of rejection again, you look up to the blue sky…
And this time, it itches your windpipe and you start to asphyxiate. Your eye lids flutter for the last time and outside, the world moves on…
Without a care.

Atrocious Betrayal

And Maryam and I put this piece together…word after word, and we created it.
Enjoy. It’s all yours.

And she knew things would get better soon. Hope was always there, lingering above and below in her nerves, shouting out to the impregnable soul, as if asking it to never give up.

Her pleas went unheard. There was a constant echo all around but nothing loud enough to reach the ears of that one person. She thought this was the end. She didn’t know any better.

But then, his eyes, they were way too bewitching. She couldn’t get her mind to focus on anything but them.

Because she had seen it. The divine light originating from within the pupils…and she knew…he was hers.

And then she heard him. “I dare you to move.”
But she was grounded, couldn’t step forward or backwards. He had given her a chance and she was letting it go. Not because she didn’t want to take it. But because she couldn’t.

Because, her mother had already chosen the man with the good fortune for her. Because, she had already been sold to the wealthy..To the highest bidder. It had been an auction. She had lost the right to herself.

It had already been done. Her future had already been moulded according to the plans of her Mother. And her inefficacious cries had all been in vain.

She felt herself disintegrating. His eyes bore into her.

He repeated, “I dare you to move.”

She broke down then, her body shuddering with sobs. That cracked him.

But there was nothing he could do, could he?

He turned and left. She stared at his back till he disappeared down the pathway. The same pathway that she had stared at for days, hoping he would come.

She had loved and lost. All because she couldn’t move.

And it felt like it was becoming difficult to breathe, like it was getting harder to inhale, like her asthmatic self was coming back to life.

And her lungs started to inflate as she struggled to the ground. Her windpipe seemed to decrease in diameter and differences came back to life again.

And death, death was sweet, smelling of blackened depths and atrocious betrayal.

She lay on the greenest patch, one hand resting atop her waist, the other pointing towards where the sun was setting.

Her soul had taken his dare. It had moved to another plane. Forever.

(Please, please take some time to visit her perfectly handsome blog:
She won’t put you down. She is the most wonderful lady I ever met online.)

And The Cycle Continues

Sometimes, life disappoints you so much that you wish that you could destroy everything that it has given you. Sometimes, people look at you as if they know what you are hiding, as if they have gotten hold of some creepy little secret of yours. A secret that has never even existed before and you wish that you could tear those small triumphant, accusing eyes of theirs with your claws and smile up to them. But your filthy brain has control over your hands and it forces them to stop, and you wish that you’d never have had the brain, only the heart. You want to stay in that moment forever, but now that you want to, life deliberately snatches it away from you. And for those same people, you feel a sense of unnerving love, and the same life, you want to embrace it with all your love and a wide grin pasted on your face.
But now that you want to, life doesn’t. Life is somewhat moody. It does what it feels like doing. It does not let you interfere in its sole secret plans, and when you try to do it persuasively, it gives you a deep scar, a wound that you are unable to fill for lifetime. Life stings you like a bee, it bites you like a snake, it sucks blood out of you like a vampire and then suddenly, it starts to fill colors in your life like an artist, it starts to make you smile and giggle with some old buddies. But once again, you realize that life is an expert illusionist which makes you climb the stairs of unhappiness, of success and then removes the ladder from beneath and like a thousand times, you fall on your back, totally helpless, and shattered into pieces.
And the cycle continues.

Veiling Pain

A silent satisfaction
Echoing in ears
Gliding in nerves
Like a hissing snake
An exquisite being
Exotically similar
Insulting me
With derogatory smiles
A lovable delineation
Of diffusing sentiments
Love and panic
Amalgamating lazily
With unknown feelings
Veiling pain
And evicting subjugation
It is you
Ravishing and enchanting
Like always.

Down The Memory Lane

Sometimes, in life, you just suddenly get to see that person’s new side. You see that he is not at all like you thought, you find out that, no, he is not the angel you imagined him to be, you see that he has horns and those devilish scars. And then, your thoughts start to flow so seamlessly, in just the right sequence and things start to fall in place. You get to see that yes, you had seen him give you clues but you ignored each and every one of them. You realize that this man has been cheating you from the very first day. You see that what he called love was nothing but a will to possess. You walk down the memory lane. You see that your friend talked to you just because she wanted you to give her that one dress that she loves. You see that people maintained their relations with you only so that you could loan them some money so that they could buy that dream car. You see that your dog protects you only because you give it food, only because you take it for a walk every day. You see that your elder brother, whom you have idolized all your life, is nothing but a fake. You see that your younger sister loves you when she NEEDS to and hates you when she likes to.
And then, you shatter into a billion pieces for the thousandth time, your brain’s nerves seem to explode, you feel that your spinal cord will just split open and all your thoughts will break free from the chains you have kept them in. It feels as if your heart will explode, as if your aorta will stop pumping blood, as if you pulmonary vein will stop receiving blood from your body. You feel as if the calcium in your teeth will disintegrate. It feels as if all the 206 bones in your body will break, one after the other. It feels as if your windpipe is decreasing in diameter, as if it is becoming difficult for you to breathe. It feels as if your mind would blow open with the unlimited thoughts that fill your mind.
And you return defeated, once again, and you feel your eyes water.

Amplifying Dejection

She looked at him
And he could feel it, the hatred abiding in his blood. Those mesmerizing glances concealing derogation were too hard to ignore. Those insolent remarks still hissed in his brain, like an abusive snake wriggling inside. And he still could feel that impertinent touch of dejection, of disrespectful allure procrastinating on his skin. His ear drums still amplified the slandering sound of contemptuous words weaving their way through his nerves.
And even then, he had to call her mother.

26 Alphabets

It suddenly comes, knocking on the door, waiting for me to grab the pen and paper.
And when it’s here, the avalanche spills the snow on me, throwing words like cannon balls, one after the other, challenging if I can rearrange them. The lines create a sense of unnerving panic, a horrifying chaos, asking me to give birth to a randomly exquisite masterpiece.
The pen moves, silently on the paper. The ink spills, drop by drop, obscuring the lines. And the hand moves, softly, with a ravishing carriage, to open the gates of the twenty six alphabets.
And an unusual sentiment roars in the brain, like a ferocious and hungry lion kept in chains. The mind flows into a numb valley, the first few word open the lock to the most beautiful vocabulary and the nerves carry them to the hand, and the gravity of the paper pulls them down to it’s narrow lines.
And I create a master-piece, a cluster of words no one has ever created, and I see it lying on the paper, waiting to be read and cherished.
And that is how I create an exotic piece of prose, leaving my mind blank and imparting in me a transitory wave of cold satisfaction.